At one time Hofer wore no beard, and the story goes that his growing one—which ultimately was declared to be the longest in the valley—arose from the chaff of his companions, who asserted that his wife forbade him to wear one. Whether the tale be true or not it has very general acceptance, and we all know that Hofer's beard was ultimately one of his distinguishing features during the campaigns in which he was engaged. There is a very pleasant balcony on the outside of the house which, tradition asserts, was often used by Hofer and his companions when holding their meetings or councils of war to devise some scheme by which their beloved country could be freed from a foreign yoke.
HOFER RELICS
Hofer's last letter, which is one of the most treasured of the relics, even exceeding in interest the clothes which he wore when shot at Mantua, is a splendid testimony to the dignity and greatness of the man, which surmounted all troubles and disasters and was not lessened or alloyed by triumphs. In it he speaks of his old home, of the rushing Passer, of the beautiful mountains he would see never again, and then goes on to say, "It is the great God's good will that I die at Mantua," and then, "Farewell, beautiful world," adding, "but at the thought of quitting it my eyes scarcely even moisten." Then follow the words, "I am writing this at five in the morning; at nine I shall pass into the presence of God," with the date "20th February, 1810."
Far up the mountain side above his old home is the spot where Hofer hid with his wife from November, 1809, till five o'clock on the morning of January 18, 1810, when he was captured and taken under strong escort first to Meran, and ultimately to Mantua. He had refused to fly to Vienna or take refuge on Austrian territory. He wished to remain amongst his people, perhaps with a vain hope of once more attempting to accomplish Tyrol's freedom.
It is with regret that most travellers leave Hofer's old dwelling. The whole Passeier Valley is, of course, teeming with historic memories, of the gallant doings of the patriot and his companions. Near Schloss Tyrol itself was fought one of the most notable engagements, and a victory won when the French, driven from their position on the Küchelberg, were surrounded by the peasant forces; whilst just outside Meran another skirmish took place, as a result of which the French troops were forced to evacuate the town.
SUNNY BOZEN
From Meran to Bozen by rail is rather less than twenty miles, and about the same distance by the road, which runs through the valley of the Etsch, or Adige, and in places along the lower slopes of the hills. It is a picturesque journey by either, and for cycling quite delightful. One crosses the Talfer just before reaching Bozen, which lies in a wide basin at the junction of the valley of the Etsch, with the smaller but picturesque Sarnthal, surrounded by great reddish brown crags and precipices of the porphyry mountains on which the semi-tropical cactus grows, and one gets sombre groups of cypresses, and here and there vineyards, and pine-clad crags. The town is a strange mixture of the German elements of Tyrol and the Italian. Its architecture, too, is "an admixture of that of north Italy and South Germany, here and there transfused so that it preserves characteristics of both." It is perhaps for this very reason a town of great charm, and one of considerable beauty. Its surroundings, which include the famous Rosengarten, and many beautiful little valleys and gorges present attractions for a longer stay than one at first contemplates.
It is, moreover, one of the busiest (Bozen people claim that it is the busiest) towns in Tyrol, with a population going on towards 20,000, including its outskirts, yet it possesses some most delightful gardens.
Seen from almost any point of the lower slopes of the surrounding hills, cactus, and vine-clad, and resembling in general luxuriance of vegetation Italy rather than the Tyrol of but a little further north, Bozen is charming. Below one is spread out a garden-like city, which with all its bustling life yet looks more like a holiday resort than a commercial town, with numbers of white-walled villas dotted amidst green fields, vineyards and gardens, in the latter of which blossom all the flowers one knows and loves, and many less common in England.